ABC Building Blocks for Near and Mello
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Due to a poll of mine, I have to write a series of drabbles for this pairing. Which is easy, since there is so much to play with, ne? Besides wooden blocks, that is. Rated M for some drabble content. .:. A is for Addicted. B is for Barter. C is for Cage.
1. Addicted

**A – **_Addicted_

Everything about him sucks you in. It's easy to get addicted to his albino skin and hair, all as soft and cold and colorless as snow. You want to get away from him, because he's dangerous in his own childish way, and yet you can't. You get caught up in his slow movements and silky voice and blank stares, hoping that you'll catch a hint of emotion that no one else can. He's a lot like L, and yet so much more addicting. Anyone could like L. But almost everyone could love Near.

His chosen name is ironic to me. It's like you want him near you, but you know you can't. Any addiction is impossible to break, and he knows that. Near knows that I can't leave him alone, no matter how hard I try to drift apart from him and distract my mind. I took a liking to milk and dark chocolate to avoid thinking of him, and his skin and mouth so similar to white chocolate. White chocolate is deadly, one of the most addicting things in the world. You can get high or sick (or both) off of it, and Near is aware of this. He can feel my addiction to him, and he uses it against me.

Somehow, this makes him all the more alluring.

The fact that he's as clever as I am and quicker than I am with his problem-solving skills adds to the effect. I become more addicted, all because competing with him is as addicting as he is. I get a rush when I find a new clue, stumble across more evidence, or figure something out. Usually he has one or all of these things before me, but that's half the fun; it would be a shame if I was actually better than him. If I was, then there would be competition, you see?

We go around and around in circles, Near and I, and I enjoy every second of it. I like it best when we indulge in the bitter, twisted passion of both fierce abuse on my part and defiance on his. It can be any sort of abuse, like victory over failing, verbal words that hurt worse than a hundred bee stings, or even as far as a slap in the face or tug on hair.

Violent.

Balanced.

Extreme.

Deep.

We're polar opposites. I'm rough; he's soft. I'm tactless; he has everything planned. I take things to the nth degree; he tries to level each encounter and occurrence fairly. Our rivalry runs deeper than out blood, and yet our love runs deeper still. I do love him, in a sick way, and he does love me, in his own nonchalant way.

He wants us closer; I try to pry us apart. Throughout this repeating cycle, I catch myself obsessing over him, which leads me right back to him (like he wants), in the end.

I used to think the word 'addicted to' made you an addict. I used to think that only fools took up an addiction. And even though I try to feed mine with chocolate instead of Near, it doesn't seem to work.

* * *

**A/N: So I made a poll not too long ago. It had the title, 'If I do an alphabet-themed collection of drabbles, what pairing/category should I do it for?' There were 52 choices, but only about seven were picked. Getting restless and bored, I cut it off and chose four out of those seven. Oddly, all the choices we either vague or gay, so the four I picked out were MelloXNear (Death Note gayness), AllenXLavi (D. Gray-Man gayness), NaruGaa (Naruto gayness), and SatoDai (D. N. Angel gayness). **

**I already picked out what each letter will be for all of the pairings, which makes 104 planned drabbles that I have to write. No pressure, eh?**


	2. Barter

**B –**_ Barter_

What is there to say in a moment like this? I'm never quite sure what to say when he acts like this. Mello always has been the scowling, competitive, aggressive type, but it's something else entirely when he becomes a grinning, bartering, peaceful person. The random bouts of bipolarity make my head spin.

The bartering is what scares me the most. I show not an ounce of my concern, however. I keep my face in it's cool, collective mask in order to keep him guessing. I watch him with my eyes while he paces the room in front of me. I ask him in my childish voice, "What are you asking of me, Mello?"

"Asking of you?" he repeats in that strange, light voice. I almost miss the low growling; I least I can predict his anger. His kindness is far too unpredictable for my taste. "Why, Near, I'm okay asking what I always do."

"Remind me, again, what it is you're 'always' asking," I demand of him as I carelessly toss down one of my marbles. It knocks against three different larger marbles, like a game of pinball. It rolls on and on, until it taps Mello's shoe. He picks it up and studies it.

The blonde's smile is twisted, a spark of his normal demeanor peeking through. "I want to make a deal with you, Near. And I always want to make deals, don't I?"

Oh, yes. Ever since I can remember, it was some deal or another. 'You let up on this case, and I'll let up on that one.' 'You let me get this homework question, and I'll let you get that one.' 'You can have three bars of my chocolate, and I get to have one of your puzzles.' Over and over, round and round, there and back again. It drives me up a wall. But I can't let Mello know that. To him, any emotion I give is weakness on my part. I don't know why this is, but it is. So I've learned to adapt to his barter and trade system, and in the meantime, he's learned to adapt to my blank face. I wonder if he ever wants me to show emotion. I get the feeling that he likes it better when he has to figure me out.

"You do," I remark listlessly. "So what would you like to barter this time?"

He leans down towards me, his face coming deadly close up to mine. He licks his lips to wet them before he unleashes what he desires. "Nothing big," he begins. Then he lays down the slaughtering words: "Simply the terms of our relationship for the rest of our lives. Will you stick to your childhood argument that we should be friends? Or will you change your mind and say it's better that we never contact each other again?"

Painfully, I process this. There seems to be confusion in my chest; my heart seems to think that it breathes and that my lungs pump blood. For what feels like a full minute, my heart slows to nearly a stop and my breath quickens. "You want to barter… the transaction of how we are going to handle our… relationship?" I clarify slowly. It seems absurd to me.

"That's right," Mello says as he leans away and resumes his pacing. He drops the marble, and the sound of it clattering to the floor and rolling away, _blick, blip, blook, blep-p-p,_ causes a word to pop into my mind with each simultaneous blink of my eyes to each sound. The four words end up stumbling out of my mouth.

"Which would you prefer?"

Mello pretends to look naïve. "Now Near, surely you know me better! You've been around me long enough to realize that I can't choose on my own. I constantly take breaks apart from you, and then come back for some weird reason. It's like I can't control myself," he jokes. But I know it's not actually a joke. Mello only joked back when we were children, and even then all his jokes included Matt and no one else.

I wish he would drop this façade. I dislike his falsely gentle tone and forcefully pleasant facial expression. The glint in his eyes tells me where his true intentions lie.

"So what shall it be, Near? Will we continue this contorted game of cat and mouse, or will we swear never to see or hear from one another ever again?"

He's messing with me. He has to be. I don't want to barter such a thing, and I don't think he does, either. I think Mello wants me to crack or bend or admit that he's better than me or something. Anything else would make more sense than this.

"Have you no answer?" he snaps, his grin faltering. Finally, a glimpse at the real Mello! The Mello with which I am familiar and the only one I know how to deal with.

"No, I have an answer," I bluff. "But I would still like to hear your opinion first."

"You want my opinion?" Mello hisses. The façade is gone completely now. I'm glad, but I think I revealed too much in my tone, for he says next: "Because I think you don't. think you just want to give me whatever you think I want, because you're a people pleaser. Even as a child, you knew being around other kids would just make them jealous, so to please them, you became distant and cold. Or am I wrong?"

That certainly is one way at looking at it, I'll give him that much. Honestly, I would never tell why it was that I strayed away from the other children.

He snorts and withdraws a chocolate bar from his pocket and tears off a chunk with his teeth. He rolls it over on his tongue before chewing and swallowing. "You're impossible, Near. I don't know why I bother. Can't you ever give me a straight answer?"

"I can," I murmur with my head bowed. I make it seem as though I'm counting my marbles, but I'm actually avoiding his sharp turquoise gaze. "And I think we should trade our separation gaps with time spent together. I still believe that we could make a fine team if we only 'make nice' as Roger suggested."

"So you think that we should be friends?" Mello retorts to try my resolve.

I bring my eyes up to connect with his. We lock gazes. I can feel the air in the room still with the tension. "Yes, I think we should. Unless you think friendship isn't enough." He's forced a kiss on me before, one laced with malice and destruction, but also fiery passion. It frightened me at the time, and even now I fear what else he could put me through if he chose to make our relationship the flipside of our currently hardcore rivalry-like state.

He smirks and steps closer. I hold back a flinch. His bitter, stale chocolate breath hits me in the face. "Maybe that's exactly what I wanted to hear all along, Near."

A shiver runs down my spine. I have no words to reply with, and can merely watch like a helpless child as he presses closer and touches his lips to my hair, barely a centimeter from my ear lobe.

"So if this concludes our agreement, I'd like to uphold my part of the bargain immediately."

I squeeze my eyes tightly, my body morphing into that of a paraplegic's. My tongue dies in my throat as I feel his lips skim my cheekbone. I don't know how, but I'm left unresponsive. It's always been similar to this: Mello swoops in, takes advantage of my calm, accepting mannerisms, and then leaves. But I'm afraid that this time, the last part of the pattern won't be repeated. Because of what we just bartered and traded morally, Mello is going to stay with me.

At the moment, I'm not sure how I feel about that fact.


	3. Cage

**C – **_Cage_

Imagine, if you will, a dimly lit room with television monitors all around. Now picture a single chair placed amidst these screens, with someone sitting in it, crouched over, their hand to their head with a chunk of hair being twirled around between the fingers. Now imagine this person's face round and soft-edged, like that of a child's face. Picture the hair to be a curly albino white, with not red but dark black eyes underneath the bangs.

That boy is no boy, but a young man. And that room is no room, but a cage. A cage that traps the young man within it's walls, hiding him from plain sight.

A change of scenery.

Imagine this time an underground lair. Think of foggy cigarette smoke littering the air and cheap furniture strewn about. Picture a couple computers, one or two television sets, and a group of men laying around waiting for the plan that their boss is hatching up next.

For the boss, I would like you to put together in your mind the image of straight blonde hair coming down in curtains around a partially-scarred face. Picture blue eyes, cold and cruel and insane, staring out from under slightly angled bangs. Think of chocolate, melting inside this person's mouth as he chews on a bar that is clutched, half-wrapped, in a black gloved hand.

This man is not much older than the first, and is in a lair that is also no better than a cage. A cage in which he isolates himself and plots things while handymen do his work for him.

In more than one sense of the word, these men are cowards. They do not show their face to their common enemy, Kira, for fear of being killed. They want to figure out who Kira is firsthand, and yet they are too afraid to come to one another for help. They are even scared of each other, since the bond between them is sour and troubling. Cowardice practically surrounds these two. And yet…

And yet, they are the bolder and more capable of courage than anyone else in the world, because they dare to do what they do day in and day out. They risk getting caught by Kira in order to solve the case. They battle inside and outside of their cages in order to find the necessary answers.

But time is growing short. Who can come out on top? Who can be the first to break free of their cage and face the world, or the other?

As it turns out, the blonde is the first. Mello is his name, although not his true name. He abandoned his true name years ago, and wasn't about to go back to it now.

He seeks out Near, the childish, white-haired one, and confronts him in his cage. He offers a means of escape, a chance at freedom. But the white-haired one does not comply. He can see that Mello is being far too reckless this time; he was going to get himself killed. And in order to win against Kira, Near had to live.

He tries to warn the blonde. With an easily misinterpreted emotion in his eyes, Near tries to talk Mello out of it. "Your plan will fail, Mello," he breathes. "Please, I urge you to reconsider. Instead, stay here with me and we'll work together on this, in safety. Please, listen to reason."

But Mello has never once listened to reason. So he spits at the other, "I don't want to be trapped here in a cage with you, Near! The last thing I want is for us to work together. I can do this on my own without your help, you'll see! I was meant to be number one. I was meant to be L's successor. And I'm not about to let you steal my ideas and ultimately take all the glory!"

"I don't take any glory, Mello," he replies softly, his heart sinking low. "I merely want you to live. You'll die otherwise. Something tells me so."

"I don't care," Mello snaps. "I don't care anymore. Things will end how they will end, and nothing can stop that. Murphy's Law, right? Just like we were assigned to research back at Wammy, right?"

Sadly, Near nods. He knows that he's trapped in a cage. He knows that Mello envies him and wants to be nothing more than a rival. But still, Near tries. He does. "Right, Mello."

"Damn straight," the blonde grunts. He turns away. "I'm leaving. Obviously, coming here was a bad idea."

Near presses a button to lock the doors.

Mello freezes in place when he figures out that Near did this. "Let me out, Near," he hisses with his back facing the other. One hand lingers on the handle of the door. "I refuse to become part of your game, forever stuck in a cage like you do to yourself. I'm different than you."

"Are you really so different?" Near remarks gently. "Are any of us so different? Is Kira different? Was L different? Exactly what makes humans different, Mello?"

"Is it their habits?"

"Shut up…"

"Their likes and dislikes?"

"Dammit, shut _up_…"

"Their methods of solving problems?"

"Shut up…!"

"The acts that they commit?"

"Shut up, Near!"

"Or is it the cages they place themselves into? Like their jobs, or friends, or homes, or obsessions…"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Mello roars, finally turning around to look at Near from across the room. "It doesn't matter! What does it matter if what traps people causes them to be separate from one another? Is that what separates us, Near? The cages we put ourselves into? Well then, consider me a wanderer, because I refuse to be placed into a box like _you_!"

Near sits quietly for a few minutes. Then, in the smallest of movements, he presses a button to unlock the doors once more. As Mello glances over his shoulder at the now ajar door, he hears his rival murmur, "It was only a question, Mello. I didn't mean anything by it."

Furious, Mello turns on his heel and storms out of that insensitive cage. He hates Near, hates him so much, but he admittedly loves the albino's logic. It's true, all of it. He will never say so, but it's true. Cages are what make people different from one another, and it's for this reason that Mello didn't want to join near in his. He wants to stay on different levels with Near, because if he doesn't, he knows that the secret he's been trying to stifle all these years will show itself.

The secret that he and Near are not very different at all, and that if they would simply coexist peacefully for once, they would become one.

And it's a cage like that – being connected with someone so deeply that you meld together – which frightens Mello the most.


	4. Dangerous

**D –** _Dangerous_

Disastrous.

Deranged.

Dangerous.

Each of these words could describe Mello in some way or another. And yet, despite the intensity and clear warning inside of these words, I can't help but want to reach out to the blonde time and time again. I do so in minor ways, so not to be too obvious. It might be a grab at his wrist as he's walking away, it might be one or two whispered words, it might be his name. Whatever works at the time is that I'll try in order to catch his attention.

I don't know why I want so much from him. I pretend that I don't – especially back when we were children – but, somehow, he sees through the façade. He knows that I hold forbidden feelings for him, and he detests that fact.

So then why does he give me what I want? It's dangerous to trust in him. It's dangerous to leave myself open for attack, my guard down and mask off, to his deranged mind. It'll turn into a disaster; it never failed to turn into one in the past.

But I can't stop it. One moment he's at my throat, about to tear open my major arteries and spill my blood, and then the next he's tearing at my clothes instead, his heated skin coming into contact with mine as he lines my paler skin with bruises from his lips and teeth and tongue.

I'm helpless against his force. Mello is like a tornado, wild and free and wreaking havoc with every breath he takes and step he makes. In the process, I'm a lone field mouse caught in his path, frozen with fear and draw with sympathy. Naturally, I get caught up in his whirlwinds and taken along for the ride, my little paws unable to steer the tornado in a different direction or order it to put me down.

"I don't understand you, Near," he said huskily to me one day not too long ago. "You know that I'm a hazard to you, yet you never hide from me."

"Because I can't," I told him quietly as I stood pinned against the wall. "You will simply find me again."

"I don't mean literally," Mello told me with a twisted smile. "I mean figuratively. You never run, you never push me away, you never fully conceal your emotions when you're around me. After I broke the ice surrounding you, you haven't bothered to put it back. Why is that, Near? Why do you make an exception when it comes to me?"

"I don't know," I lied. But he caught it in seconds.

"You're lying," he hissed in my ear. "You do know why. Tell me. I need to hear it, or else I might go insane. I need to know that my suspicions are correct."

He didn't say 'if they are correct', he said 'that they are correct'. Mello already knew that I loved him, but he wanted to hear me say it. Even through all the pleasure and pain, good times and grief, I never said it aloud. I admitted it to myself years ago, but I never wanted to say it.

Yet with him staring at me like that, searching my eyes for the truth before I even said it, I couldn't oppose him. He's dangerous like that; his mood swings and unyielding glare convinces me of anything. I am merely a thin wire which he bends to his will over and over again.

So, on that day, I confessed. I told him: "You're the exception because… because I love you."

He smirked. He released me and started to walk away. Just like that. He didn't ask how or why, he didn't force a kiss on me like I had hoped, and he didn't say a word. He merely smiled, pleased with himself and what he was told, and then began to walk away.

At the time, I didn't know what to do. I had slipped to the floor, sitting with my back on the wall, my mouth open. I had spilled my secret, and for what? For nothing but a cocky grin.

In retrospect, I should have stopped him. I should have demanded that he tell me in exchange what it was he felt for me, since to this day I don't know what it is he feels. He acts as though he hates me, but I know that can't be it. You wouldn't touch someone the way he does to me if you hated them. He's rough, it's true, but he's also gentle at the same time. I don't know how to explain it. Still… I should have done something back then.

Everything about Mello is dangerous, right down to his deranged method of thinking and disastrous actions.

So why do I love him?

L's successor or not, even I'm not intelligent enough to figure it out. Love is fickle that way; it can make you fall for what hurts you most, for what is labeled as perilous.

Love sure has a cruel sense of humor.


	5. Escalate

**E – **_Escalate_

The pressure intensifies and the tension skyrockets the second he walks into the room.

I can feel my blood begin to boil and adrenaline start to churn my heart the second I see his snowy white color, radiating innocence and holier-than-thou rays. Near thinks he's_ so_ above us that he doesn't need to speak to or interact with others. We're all orphans at the same house learning the same schooling, and yet he's at the top. He's number one. How he climbed to a rank higher than me, I have no idea.

I _hate _it.

But most of all, I hate everything about _him_.

I despise his flawless skin, I loathe his isolated demeanor, I detest the way he sits quietly and keeps his opinions to himself as he does his puzzles, and I dislike immensely how he reels me in; it's like I want to know what he thinks, I want to hear him utter at least one word, and I want to break down his barriers and ruin his flawless skin with bruises.

I'm fourteen years old, and already I have a sexual complex. It escalates to new highs whenever I'm around Near. I wish it would stop; it's beginning to piss me off. I don't want to ever admit the twisted things I feel for him – a merge of spite and attraction, extreme rivalry and affection – but if I don't, I might never get the chance to be close to him. Part of me, mind you, is revolted by the thought, and yet I feel the need to do it.

Near is about two years younger than me. He recently turned thirteen and I'm about to turn fifteen, and yet we couldn't be more equal. I'm just as smart as he is, and just as cold to others, even though they reach out to me unlike they do with him. I may be emotional and impulsive, and he may be calm and stoic, but we're still equals. I don't care if his grade-point-average is lightly higher than mine; we're still the only people who do upper high school to college-leveled work. My best friend Matt could technically do the same, but he doesn't care. He's too lazy, and would rather play a video game than do his homework.

I don't understand why all these thoughts arise late in the night. That's what time it is now: late, past midnight, when I can't sleep and my mind is askew. It's nights like these that I sometimes slip out of my room and pace down the hallway to Near's room. We're not supposed to leave our rooms after curfew, but I do it often. Who needs rules and authority? If I want to read a novel in the library, then I will. If I want to watch late-night television shows in the living room, then I will. If I want to go outside and in a tree and gaze at the heavens, then I will. And if I want to hang around outside of Near's door, then I _will_. And no one can stop me.

Tonight, I want to venture to Near's room. Only this time, I have the crushing need to enter. I won't knock, either; whether he's asleep or not, I'm going to march right in. because I feel like it. And I'm tired of hiding what I feel.

So I get up, get dressed in my usual black clothing, and head out the door; all without a sound. I pad down the wooden floorboards to the albino's room. I stand there a moment, my fingers flexing in midair as they hover above his doorknob. Why am I hesitating? Did I want to do something for once? Don't I want to finish what I never have the guts to start? I always end up taking out my frustration and passion on someone else, namely Matt. But he doesn't mind; he likes me. I know, I know; I'm both hesitating further at the moment and guilty of abusing the redhead's feelings for me, but whatever.

With a sharp twist so not to lose my nerve halfway through turning the knob, I yank the door open. Near's head snaps upwards in surprise. A book is in his hands, and a dimly-lit lamp is angled beside him. "Mello…" he murmurs with a hint of shock in his tone and clearly displayed in his black eyes. "Wh-what brings you here at this hour?"

I actually succeeded in making him stutter, even on one syllable of one word? _Perhaps Near _is _human,_ I muse with a smug grin. I take a step inside and close the door behind me, discreetly locking it. "Can I not visit a friend of mine during one my bouts of insomnia?"

"Mello, you don't think of me as a friend; we both know that. Why are you really here?" he questions me, already seeing through my façade. How can he figure me out so quickly? Damn his intelligence!

I sigh with false helplessness. "You never fail to see through my schemes," I say listlessly as I gesture with one hand. "It's pathetic that I keep trying to fool you." I step closer and closer until I'm at his bed. I sit down on the edge, as if I've done this before. As if I'm not revolted by the sheer thought of being within arm's reach of Near's body. "Tell me, Nate River, if you're so smart… why do _you _think I'm here?"

He inches away, his knees folding up closer to his chin. "I honestly don't know, Mello. And who told you my real name?"

I snort. "It's not that hard to hack into Wammy House's mainframe through Roger's computer. I could look up any information about anyone I choose. But, to be fair, I suppose you can know my birth name, since I'll never use it. It's Mihael Keehl."

"So Mello is Mihael?" Near says slowly. "Interesting…"

"To you, maybe," I say. "To me, that name is pointless."

"What pointless is you entering my room without asking permission and refusing to tell me why."

He always knows how to cut to the chase, doesn't he? I sigh exasperatedly. "Fine. You want to know why I'm here?"

Near notices the gleam in my eye, and seems to shrink back further. "Perhaps it would be best if you left instead," he whispers.

Is he really so afraid of me? What is it that he fears? I'm curious, now… With a smirk, I climb onto the bed and stare him down. My heartbeat escalates with anticipation. What shall I do to him to being out what his fear would be? Pining him to the headboard might suffice…

"But I don't want to leave," I say darkly. In one swift movement, I grab hold of his wrists and slam them against the pillow. He's so short and was sitting so far forward that his arms didn't even make it to the headboard. No matter; this works a bit better. He gazes up at me, an unexplainable emotion filling his pupils. I cock my head. "Why don't you resist, Near? You could struggle, or scream, or yell for help. And yet you're lying there, doing nothing but staring at me." _React,_ I think. _React so that I can figure out why you seemed fearful of me a few seconds ago. _

But within the next couple seconds, I realized it wasn't fear he had showed. It was tentativeness. As he looks up at me, he shakes his head. "I won't scream or yell because I don't want anyone to wake up. And I'm not struggling because I know I'm not stronger than you; it would do me no good. So I'll simply let you get out whatever it is you need to, Mello. You're more ruled by your emotions than I am, so I think it's best if you release them."

I scowl as I bend down to get in his face. "So you won't fight someone who might hurt you because you think it's useless and that the person needs to let their emotions out? Are you insane? What if I was a stranger about to murder or rape you? What would you do then?"

"But you're not a stranger, and you wouldn't dare do either of those things," he retorts calmly. I'm about to growl and jostle him out of frustration, but he suddenly closes his eyes and relaxes his fists. "Besides, I knew this would happen sooner or later."

"You knew _what _would happen?" I hiss. How come, even when I have the advantage, he still knows more than I do?!

"I knew that one of these days, you wouldn't be able to hold your feelings in any longer, and that being with Matt wouldn't be enough." He opens his dark eyes and looks directly into mine. "You're not that hard to figure out, Mello."

I want to roar or kick at something, but instead, I pant and settle my conflicting emotions. My eyes pop open, and I glare at the white boy pinned beneath me. The heat around me escalates as he softens into a state of… I'm not sure, exactly. His face is as nonchalant as ever, but his eyes… they're hazy and begging something from me, but I can't tell what.

Then, something clicks in my head. I lean upwards. "You… you want this, don't you?" I murmur. By the faint blush and turn of his head, I know it's true. "So… all this time…"

"The feelings I harbor for you are not too unlike your own, Mello," Near says quietly. "Only I've never hated you, only rivaled you because I wanted to prove myself to you."

I am in utter shock, to say the least. A small part of me nags at my more spiteful side, saying that I should teach him a lesson for fooling me all this time. But I ignore it. In place of violence – which is a road I normally take – I release Near's wrists and lean back down to match my lips to his.

His lips are as soft and cool as milk, especially compared to my own which feel too hot all of a sudden. I notice after a couple seconds how his smaller hands are flying up to cling to the back of my neck. The bruises I imagined inflicting on him in the past suddenly seem like a possibility, only now I imagine them being made around his neck not with my hands, but with my mouth.

I part from his lips and with a short, warm breath, move to the pale skin of his throat. He sighs softly, something that sounds similar to my name, and I can feel his heartbeat under my hand as I move it up under his silky-white pajama shirt. I break open the buttons from the inside, my mouth eager to travel downwards. Distantly, I feel a tug in my thick blonde hair coming form his fingers, but it doesn't bother me one bit. I focus mainly on stealing the snowy boy's innocence with my touches, and filing away the memory of the taste of his skin – so much better than chocolate – in my mind for later.

My hands scale down his sides, which are slim enough for me to nearly count his ribs. Meanwhile, my tongue locates one of his nipples and I earn a stifled moan from the usually stoic boy. His breath hitches and his heart rate temporarily escalates like my own.

Somehow, I enjoy this more than my hate. Even though I'd rather be rougher and more forceful with him resisting me – it would be more of a challenge, and I like challenges – I'm satisfied with his cooperation. I never wanted to work with him in the past on a school project for multiple reasons, but I have to say, moving and working with him in this way isn't detestable whatsoever.

Our relationship escalated to new heights I never thought possible that night. It's amazing to think that so much could happen in so little time… and with Near, no less.


	6. Faint

**F – **_Faint_

"Alright children, I want you to know that there will be a new orphan joining us tomorrow," Roger informed the kids of Wammy's House over the announcing system. "I want you to be very kind to him, because he has a blackout condition, but he is very bright. His name is Nate River, but he wants all of you to call him Near. Please, while he is here, be watchful of him. He might faint or have memory blackouts at random times, so if something happens, I want one person to stay with him while another comes to get me. He has a medical shot that I have to administer."

Mihael Keehl, nicknamed 'Mello', was intrigued by this announcement. A smart kid with a fainting problem? It was very interesting. Who knows, maybe he was as smart as Mello himself. Ha, fat chance. But still, it'd be more fun if there was someone to challenge the blonde's brilliance.

Mello was nine years old, and yet he read _A Tale of Two Cities_ and gave a book report on it; an intelligent one, showing that he understood the large tome completely and had his own opinion on it. The whole school called him a super-genius, and many of the other children wanted to be his friend. But he didn't care about those kids. His only friend was a red-haired gamer with a pair of favorite goggles that he never took off. His name was Matt, and he was the same age as Mello, although he was closer to turning ten.

"Hey, Mello," Matt whispered from the seat next to him, "What d'ya think this new kid will look like?"

Mello shrugged. "Who knows, and who cares? We'll just have to wait and see."

They didn't have to wait long. The new boy came by dawn the next day.

As soon as he saw him, Mello knew he was the new kid. He knew, because never has he seen someone who stood out in a crowd as much as this kid.

His skin was ashen, pale as milk. His hair was snow white, and his eyes were a vivid black. He even wore white, his baggy cotton pants and matching shirt hanging softly off of his features. He appeared to be seven years old, give or take a year. He also stood out because he looked intimidated, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face. What gave him a way was the nervous way he started to twirl a strand of his wavy hair.

Mello smirked. This kid was like fresh meat, a stranded zebra in the middle of a field full of lions. "Come on, Matt. Let's go greet the newcomer," the blonde said in a faked polite tone.

"If you say so," the redhead shrugged. He slipped his Gameboy into his pocket. Then he trailed after Mello as they approached the young albino.

"Hello," Mello practically purred. "You're Near, right?"

"Yes, I am," the other replied. "Who are you two?"

"The name's Matt," the redhead said with an adjustment to his goggles. His baggy striped shirt covered half his hand as he did so. "And this is my best buddy, Mihael."

"But you can call me Mello," the blonde said as he offered his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Near stared down at the hand before shyly taking it into his own and nodding it once. He stared first into Matt's calm brown eyes, and then into Mello's icy blue ones. "It's a pleasure to meet Matt and Mello."

"I think we're going to be good friends," Matt smiled warmly as he laced his fingers behind his head. "Do you like games, Near?"

"I love games," Near replied with a small grin. "All kinds of games, especially ones that make you think. And toys; I love toys."

Mello draped one arm over the new boy's shoulder and led him toward the building. "Tell me, Near, how old are you? And what kind of grades do you get? Old Roger said that you were pretty smart."

"I am intelligent for my age," Near said a tad bashfully. "I'm only seven, but I can do full calculations in my head that almost everyone needs a calculator for. And I'm really good as puzzles and chess; I can do a thousand-pieced puzzle in just under an hour, and beat everyone I meet at chess."

"Oh, really?" Mello asked, intrigued. "Then would you like to play a game of chess with me?"

Suddenly, the boy stopped walking and stared off into space. His black eyes were vacant, the eyelids drooped. Mello cocked his head at the boy.

"D'ya think it's one of his blackouts like Roger talked about?" Matt wondered aloud.

Within seconds, Near started walking again. When he looked back at the others, he posed, "What's wrong? Isn't Mello coming?"

"You just…" Mello began, but then stopped himself. He shook his head. "Never mind."

As it turned out, this had merely been the beginning of strange behavior of Near's behalf. The younger boy's so-called condition, Mello realized, was worse than Roger had been led them to believe.

Part of the way through their chess game about forty-five minutes following Near's first spell, another one came.

"It's Mello's move," Near murmured. His little hands were on his knees as he crouched forward in the big study chair in the lounge. Near had chosen the ivory pieces, obviously, and Mello had preferred the onyx ones.

So far, the boys were perfectly matched, each having lost five pieces, mostly pawns. As Mello stared down at the board, he wondered what plan Near had with his rook, the little castle piece jutting out rather far from it's normal territory. It looked suspicious. But if he attacked it with his knight, would Mello be falling into a trap? Was there something else on the board that Near was using that made his rook merely a distraction?

There! Over on another part of the board, Near's queen and bishop were positioned peculiarly. That must be what he was really up to. So Mello moved his knight toward the bishop. If he played his minions correctly, he could destroy the bishop and queen with his knight and own queen.

"Go," Mello ordered. But as he said this, Near's eyes fluttered shut and he fell forward unto the chess table. Without a second of hesitation, the blonde jumped up and cradled the younger boy in his arms. The nine-year-old stared down at the other, a puzzled expression on his face. "What the hell? Did he just faint?"

The snowy genius looked sweet and peaceful, despite the circumstance. Mello softened. With a grunt, he lifted the small boy onto his back and carried him out the room and down the hallway to Roger's office. Luckily, the old man was there.

"Hey, Roger," Mello grumbled. "Near fainted."

"Oh, my. Already?"

"Yes, already! Can you help me? He's heavier than he looks," the blonde complained.

"Right, right; sorry. Here, give him to me." He picked up the boy like a baby, his white head to the man's shoulder, and carried him over to a cot in the nurse's office one door over. He laid the seven-year-old on the cot and sighed. He scratched his head. "Now, where did I put that syringe?"

"S-syringe? You're going to use a needle on the poor kid?" Mello gasped.

Roger stared at him. "Of 'course. I told you over the announcements that I had to administer medicine by shot."

"But…"

"I know you're afraid of needles, Mello, so why don't you leave for a little bit while I give him the shot."

Mello shook his head firmly. Somehow, he felt protective of this kid, even though he proved to be a lot smarter than Mello had been at the same age, which meant that he was probably smarter than Mello in general. But he was also very frail, and in need of help even though he wouldn't allow it unless he was unconscious. "No, I want to stay with him. He's a bloody troublesome little bugger –"

"Mello! Watch your language," Roger snapped.

The blonde ignored him and finished his thought. "– But I like him. Plus, I'm the only friend he has right now. Matt got jealous and left us when we started to play chess, so I don't think he likes Near much."

"Jealous? You think he's jealous?"

Mello shrugged. "Matt doesn't like sharing friends, I guess."

Roger sighed. "Well, suit yourself. Why don't you come over here and hold his hand in case he wakes up, hmm? I heard that he doesn't like needles just like you, but he has no choice but to take this medicine straight into his bloodstream."

"Because it has to go directly to his brain?" Mello guessed as he came over to the other side of the cot and sat down in a chair. He gripped Near's hand, which felt rather limp and weak in his, as well as warm.

"That's correct," Roger smiled. He squirted some of the yellow-orange liquid from the syringe to get the air out. A bubble in someone's blood can kill them, as Mello once read in a biology book for high school freshman. "Alright, get ready to look away. I'm putting on the tourniquet and I'm going to inject his medicine in a second."

Mello gulped. "Okay…" His grip on the younger boy's hand tightened. Vaguely, he thought he felt the grip being returned.

"Here goes…" Roger warned.

The blonde adverted his eyes. If he strained his hearing enough, he thought he could hear the prick of the skin breaking on Near's arm, as well as the push of the plunger down the syringe. He felt like vomiting.

"There, all done," Roger said as he pilled the needle out and undid the tourniquet.

Mello's eye returned to Near's face, which began to contort as he started to wake. His features softened and his eyes fluttered open. "M-Mello?" he whispered in shock.

"Hey, Near," the blonde murmured comfortingly. "How are you?"

"I feel funny," Near replied as he tried to push himself onto his elbows. He was caught by someone's hand holding his. Blushing, he stared at their clasped hands. "Why is Mello holding my hand?"

Embarrassed that he had forgotten, Mello released the milky-pale hand quickly. "You just hot a shot. In case you woke up too early, I had to be ready to restrain you," he said. He wasn't completely a lie, but be didn't want to say the truth, which was that he wanted to reassure Near. It would sound too weird for someone this kid recently met.

"Oh," he albino mumbled. He seemed disappointed. "Thanks."

"It's nothing."

And it was nothing. Mello didn't dwell on Near's condition, and Near never brought up this moment again.

Time passed. More incidents occurred. Near would faint or have a blackout at least three times a week, and twice, he had three in one day. Mello wasn't always there; and the times that he was, he got someone else to help Near. He didn't want to be caught caring about the white boy again. Mello wasn't sure why, but something told him that he shouldn't be all buddy-buddy with this kid. Something told him that it wouldn't end well.

He found out why that 'something' was about a year after Near's arrival.

Near was eight now, and Mello was ten. It was one day during a video game session with Matt that the redhead left to see if he could sneak the three of them some sodas from the kitchen downstairs.

The game was paused on Mello's TV and the controllers were lying on the wooden floor, totally ignored. With Matt gone to steal drinks, Mello and Near were left alone.

Near was the first to speak in the silence. "Mello barely tolerates me, doesn't he?"

"What makes you say that?" Mello grunted as he plopped down on his bed, his arms up behind his head.

"Mello isn't as friendly to me after my first fainting spell. It's been a year now… can Mello tell me what happened to make him act like this?"

He spoke pretty fancy for an eight-year-old. "I dunno what it was. I couldn't care less; all I know is, Matt better hurry up. I'm thirsty."

Near glanced at his bare feet. "Doesn't Mello want to be my friend?"

"Honestly, I think we'd make pretty good rivals instead. You're a genius, and I'm a genius, so if we challenged together, who knows that heights we could reach."

Near swallowed tears. He didn't know if it was natural or not, but he started getting fuzzy feelings when he was around Mello. He liked Mello, and not in the friend-way. He was merely a child, but he was sure about his feelings. "So Mello wants me to challenge him," the albino clarified.

"Yep," the blonde said. He thought that, maybe, if Near started treating him different, maybe he could drop the protective, warm feelings he was holding for the younger boy.

Near fisted his petite hands. "No. I don't want to be Mello's rival," Near murmured. He climbed onto the bed, causing Mello to jump and sit up straight. "I want to be…"

Before he finished his sentence, he grabbed at Mello's shirt like a kitten trying feebly to get it's paws into the top of a tall piece of furniture, and leant up to place a chaste kiss on the older boy's lips.

Mello's eyes bulged in shock. His first kiss? With another boy? A boy who was two years younger than him, a boy who was pale and socially awkward and had a fainting problem, a boy who was smarter than he was? A first kiss with _Near_?

This was passed weird. It was impossible, like a bad dream turned good, or a good dream turned bad. Mello wasn't sure which.

As soon as Near finished giving the other a kiss, he let go and leant away, an embarrassed wave of pink across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks. His lips were still tingling. He prayed that Mello hadn't minded that he did that.

As Mello was about to yell furiously or embrace the other and kiss him again (he was confused which would be better in the long run), Near suddenly went dead-eyed and his arms fell. He stared off into space for a few seconds prior to falling backwards with closed eyes. He nearly hit Mello's wall, if the blonde hadn't moved to catch the other in time.

Twice now he's caught this boy when he fainted. And this time, Near had had a blackout first. That's never happened in the past.

Matt burst into the room. "I got the sodas! Cherry Cola for you, Mello. I got grape for Near, and orange for me. Hey… what's up with you holding him like that? Did he faint again?"

Feeling numb, Mello nodded.

It wasn't until one soda later did Near awaken. They hadn't bothered to take him to Roger; he already had a shot that morning, so why give him another so soon? Plus, as soon as Matt was gone again, Mello needed Near there to ask him what the hell that kiss was about. Because, even though he wouldn't admit it to the white-haired boy, Mello had _enjoyed_ it.

After some time, Matt left to go to the bathroom. He claimed that 'the soda had gone right through him'.

They were alone again.

"Near… when matt left last time… why did you kiss me?" Mello said lowly and unsurely, trying to sound disgusted but was failing.

"Huh? What's Mello talking about? I didn't do that," Near said with a blush and a shrug. "At least, I don't remember doing that. Why do you ask? Had I kissed Mello? But I'm not really old enough to, am I?"

The blonde blinked. Slowly, his confusion turned into rage. How dare Near make a move on him and then forget all about it! That stupid kiss had actually meant something to him, and for Near to forget because of one of his blackouts… "Dammit, dammit!" Mello cursed under his breath. He shot a glare Near's way. "Never mind. I was mistaken."

It was then that Mello realized what this meant: he couldn't trust Near's memory. He could never form any sort of deep relationship with him, no matter how sweet that kiss had been, because he would always forget giant gaps. He would keep on fainting, and that was how it was always going to be. And Mello couldn't handle that.

"Look, Near, I think you should go back to your room," he said coldly. "I want to be with only Matt for a while."

Looking openly hurt, Near nodded. "Okay; if that's what Mello wants, then I'll go."

It is what he wanted. It was the last thing he wanted. He wasn't sure. But Mello was too stubborn to work it out at the moment.


	7. Gravity

**G – **_Gravity_

When gravity yanks down on every being on the Earth, it doesn't let up. And when something tries to defy gravity, it's usually shot down. Even birds and airplanes and helicopters don't defy gravity; they simply work with it at a higher level. Because even the birds land, as well as the flying vehicles made by man. And when there are passengers inside of the flying machines, they are glued to their eats and able to walk across the vehicle freely without floating because of gravity.

But there are other gravitational pulls. They are almost magnetic, they way they string people together and bond them. If you were to say that you 'gravitated' toward another human, or what you were caught up in someone's 'gravitational hold', then this is the other form of gravity. It's almost a magnetic attraction that fuses two people of complimentary chemistry to one another. And when this happens, you have no choice but to go with the flow. If you resist, you won't be able to do so for very long. Because no one on this planet can break from gravity. They are powerless against such a great force.

Such a thing occurs between two boys at a local orphanage in England. They had names, but for all intense purposes, they are referred to as 'Mello' and 'Near'.

Now, both of these boys are brilliant, although one is much more competitive than the other. They are almost polar opposites, yet they have the same goal: to succeed their friend and mentor, L.

L's true name is also confidential, and yet it's the strongest name anyone knows. 'L' by itself, written in an old-time font, black on white, is a message that everyone understands. He is an unbeatable detective, and yet is threatened to be beat by a twisted villain known as Kira.

Mello wants to catch Kira before Near does. Near simply wants to do what is asked of him. Mello tries to ignore his attraction for the other, and Near tries to befriend the other. It's a viscous circle, woven tenfold like a spider's web.

So when they collide, gravity ever forcing them together, one resists and the other embraces it.

Yet, through the one-sided struggle, the two find themselves bare and intertwined, as if there had been no struggle at all. For a few short moments, Mello indulges in his hidden desires, and Near surrenders himself to gravity. They manner that they rise and fall, crash and burn, get high and cruise only to combine…

It's as if they had been guided the entire time by their gravitational strings. They will eventually resume their rivalry, and sooner or later one of them will catch Kira red-handed, but for the time being, they are content to give in.


	8. Hallucination

**H – **_Hallucination_

My vision blurs and shifts, dancing shapes and colors across my line of sight. My head feels foggy and my body too warm. As my stomach churns with the fury of the mighty sea during a storm, I grow dizzy with nausea. I hack into my sleeve, the raspy, wet cough shaking my bones.

Can someone please ease the ache in my throat from the cough in my chest? Can someone please cool my sweaty forehead from the fever raging in my skin? Can someone please calm the confines of my tummy? I don't think I can handle this sickness much longer…

It's late fall, nearly winter. Everyone is cooped up indoors where the fire is toasty-warm and the germs are at their high point. The flu is going around, although some of us are lucky enough to skip the vomiting portion of it. I am one of those few. But unfortunately for me, the nauseous feeling lingers.

Out of all of us here at Wammy House, it seems that Matt and Mello are immune to the disease. Which is odd, since Matt eats more junk food than anyone else here, and Mello is not a strong horse; in some ways, he's as thin as I am.

Because they are the only healthy ones, Roger tries to keep them apart form us so hat they don't catch the horrible flu. But neither of them ever listens to the rules Roger sets down, especially not Matt. The redhead, in a way, loves to disobey. And Mello… well, he does whatever he feels like due to his cockiness.

So when he shows up in my room on this particular day of my worst health yet, it's of no surprise to me. I expect him to come by every now and then, mostly for a project we're force to be partners of (Roger likes to do that often, usually by my request) or to ream me about something I did, since it appears that every time I succeed over him, he feels the need to get some sort of payback.

Through my dizzy, painfully miserable haze, I watch the older boy slip into my room and shut the door behind him with his heel, a tray full of objects in his hands. "Roger told me to bring this to you," he grumbles sourly.

"Thank you, Mello," I reply softly, my voice weak. I force myself to sit up, my elbows digging into the sheets.

He grunts, as if he's stating that he'd rather not be here. But I'm glad that he is. Even when he's furious with me, I'm happy to have him around. It's a sordid kind of love that I have for him. It's much sicker than my own illness, mainly due to the fact that I know he hates my guts, and yet I subtly make an endeavor to get closer to him. It's not healthy to crawl back to someone who wants to hurt you. Some might even call it masochistic, but this is one thing I know that I am not. Instead, I am reckless. Not reckless with my behavior, mind you; I keep a mask of nonchalance at all times. It's simply my actions that I'm not as careful with…

The second Mello turns away, I reach out for the tail of his silky black shirt. Because of the sickness going around, they cancelled the school portion of the orphanage, so no one really bothered to get dressed today. Mello always wears black, it seems, and I always wear white. Opposites. His pajama top contrasts greatly with my albino skin. "Don't go yet, Mello. Please," I beg, my face in the rare form of contortion that only comes with being desperate and under the weather.

He blinks at me, no doubt astonished by the amount of emotion – no matter how minimal – that is being exposed on my face along with the strange plea. He slows in his tracks and backs up to sit on the side of my bed. I release his sleeve from my feeble grip, idly wondering if I'm imagining the benevolent expression buried deep within his blue irises.

The benevolence fades quickly, however. Within seconds, his usual scowl is back in place. "Just what game are you playing at, Near?" he spits at me. I flinch involuntarily, my head reeling with both fever and rejection.

"There's no game, Mello. I just wish for you to stay and help me a bit," I reply mildly. I don't want to say to what extent that I need him.

Mello rolls his eyes and temporarily stands to take the tray onto his lap. There are two bowls on it, along with one glass. The first bowl, which Mello reaches for at this very instant, contains a pool of cool water with a cloth drifting in the center. The second bowl, so close to his elbow that I'm afraid it'll spill, contains chicken noodle soup. And the glass is full of orange juice to refresh my sore throat and give me a healthy dose of vitamin C for my immune system.

"I don't want to be here," he grumbles as I lean back with closed eyes and feel the soothing touch of icy wetness on my burning forehead. Dab, dab… so gentle that I almost forget that Mello is the one applying the cool cloth. "But Roger insisted, saying something about how badly you need to be nursed back to health. Tch, what a load of bull. You'd be fine on your own."

I hold my tongue, not wanting to argue how little I would have if I was truly ever left on my own. I seem to be every day, with the way that I isolate myself with my toys and puzzles and books. But the thing is, I'm never truly alone. I always have some sort of backup nearby, and it comforts me. So if I ever was on my own… well, I would be far from fine.

As the fever dims and my churning stomach fills with half a bowl of soup, I hazily notice the new close proximity that Mello's face is taking to mine. Either I'm hallucinating from my sickness, or Mello is being rather bold, and compassionate.

I drift into semi-consciousness as I finish off the last of my juice and recline back into the pillow-soft sheets. Mello hovers over me, staring down. I feel uneasy under his gaze, because his usual coldness has magically vanished. I shift onto my side away from him, hoping that he'll leave. As much as I'd like him to stay, this change unnerves me.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asks, his voice as low and even as ever.

I nod my head, the rustling of my hair against the pillow echoing in my ears. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. I clench my hands into fists and ball them up under my chin. "You can take your leave now."

"What if I don't want to?" he retorts, his breath hot on my neck. He's right behind me now, and I hadn't even felt him move. His voice causes my eyes to pop open in shock. I blink once, but don't say a word. Mello's hand creeps over my shoulder and cups the side of my face, and forces my head to turn and look his way. "When I think about it, you're helpless now. You're weak and inferior to me at this moment. I could do anything to you, and you wouldn't fight back."

I can feel the color drain from my face, the warming, pink feeling of illness seeping below my shirt collar. Cold fear flashes across my chest and grips my mouth. My lips fall open. "What are you getting at, Mello?" I ask timidly, my voice not at all reflecting my fear. If anything, I sound annoyed. Yet I'm not.

Mello grins wolfishly, his teeth glistening in the paling light of the afternoon. "I'm not getting at anything," he says smoothly. "I'm simply stating a fact." His fingers slide down my jaw and tap my lips. "You know, for someone with a fever, it makes you feel normal. Does that mean your skin is cold otherwise?"

My brain can't seem to remember how to tell my lungs to breathe. Mello's face is so near now, his nose inches from my own. I can feel his body heat through the covers around me; I'm leaning into him without meaning to, since he pulled me here. And in the state that I'm in, he's right; I'm defenseless. I can't even remove myself from this entrapment. "Mello…" I whisper, my tone showing a hint of fear and love.

His grip tightens, and almost hurts. His nails scratch into the skin of my chin. "I could hurt you. I _could._ I'm capable of slamming you down and marking you, making sure that you will never get in my way again. To make sure that you never fully get better." His tone is hard and jagged, like a stone. "But…" he laments as he lessens his grip and leans down, the tip of his nose grazing my ear, "It would be cruel. And as much as I hate you, I can't defeat you. If I do, then I lose my rival, and things become too easy."

His lips buzz on my earlobe, and I restrain my urge to wrap my arms around his neck. I know I'm sick, but I can't help to wonder what it would be like if he kissed me. It's terrible, I know; I shouldn't like him this way, but I do.

This feels like a dream. Like one big hallucination, in which Mello is staying with me and being so close, right where I have wanted him to be. I could be imagining, too, the warm feeling of his lips pressing against the hollow of my milky throat, and his tongue touching my ear. It must be a hallucination, because he would never do this normally.

"Finally, you can't fight back," he's saying in a husky tone, his legs pinning mine as he crawls over me, his warm body heat smothering me through the covers. "I can do this without consequence…"

Yes, it has to be an illness-made hallucination. But it's a welcomed one. "Mello," I sigh as I bring my hands around his torso to meet at the small of his back, "I love you…"

He freezes, his lips lax on my neck. "What did you just say?"

I feel sleepy. I don't respond. I shake my head and wonder why a hallucination of my own mind would react in that manner.

Mello pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and looks me in the eye. "Near, what did you say? Did you say that you loved me?"

Is this not a hallucination? Is this actually happening? If so, then I made a grave mistake. "…No…" I lie.

He doesn't seem to believe me. His eyebrows connect in a skeptical frown, and he lifts a hand to brush my white curly hair from my eyes. "You better not be lying. Because if you loved me, then I would have to kill anyone else who got close to you, and then things could get messy."

My heart stopped beating in my chest. Is Mello truly that possessive? I know there isn't another person alive who I could love in such a sordid way, but I don't want others to get injured (or murdered?) because of it.

I swallow hard and look away. "No, Mello. I would never lie to you."

He nods and grins. "Good, because I want to be the only liar in this twisted relationship."

It's at this point that I realize that this has to be a false reality, because only figments of my imagination would actually express that they are a lie.


	9. Injection

**I –** _Injection_

Near,

Have you ever wondered what it's like when a needle breaks your skin, and a scar sinks in it's place? And when the trip begins, a college of the impossible and dizzyingly wonderful covers your brain? Well, from personal experience, I can say that it can only lead to one thing: everything being all over for you.

I know what runs through my blood, I know what danger I'm in. But it's only done because you keep my mind constantly racing. When I'm on the edge and falling off, it feels like it's all about to end. It's sad, because now I'm dead inside, and yet I still wonder why…

I wonder why I ever bothered with you. I wonder why I even attempted to surpass what is clearly out of my reach. My emotions are too strong for true logic to kick in. Is that you're so much better than I am? You kill off your emotions and shove them down so deep into your core that they can never resurface again, right? You essentially become inhuman in order to be the second best detective there ever was.

Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as perfect as Nate River. And yes, I know your real name. I always have. Don't think just because you call yourself by one name, you actually become that person. There is such thing as hacking into Wammy House's files, you know. If you would have thought of that, you'd know my real name. But I'm glad that you don't, because then there would be one more thing you could hold against me, one more gentle tone of voice said with a name that belongs to me in order to shatter my resolve.

It might not be the healthiest thing to do, what I've been putting inside my veins twice a week for the past three. I know it's slowly deadening my cells. I know that it will end me eventually. And it's not eve an addiction; the only thing I was ever addicted to was you, and chocolate. But I left one and dumped the other, so all there is left are these injections.

Shooter. I used to think that was only a term used for those who wield a gun. But no, now I've become a different brand of shooter: the kind that shoots deadly chemicals into his arm instead of deadly bullets at a target. I'm ill, I know; it's not natural to use drugs, least of all small doses of the kind that euthanizes. Eventually, I'll inject too high of a dose, and I'll die. Not by Kira's standards, nor by yours. I will die by my _own_ standards, and no one can stop me. Matt already tried, and if my best friend can't stop me, then who can?

Matt claimed that I was insane before he left. Even he couldn't stand to be around me anymore. But you know, I can't stand to be around myself. I didn't get what I wanted, and because of that, I see no reason left to live. I'm not a person worthy of normalcy, and I probably couldn't handle it if I tried. Normal is not a term well associated with me. And it's funny, because I think that's partially why I became mentally unstable: normalcy wove it's misty fingers in front of my nose, expecting me to follow, and yet I wasn't able to.

It was at Wammy's when it tempted me. The other boys and girls at the refined orphanage asked me to play, wanted to include me, and most of the time, I said no. Not because I was a recluse like yourself, but because I was not capable of being normal. I couldn't interact with others because you were always in my line of sight. And when you were there, all I saw was you. My hate for you, our rivalry… but also your bizarre charm, and my contorted form of love for you.

Sitting here in my desk chair now, with an empty syringe on the tabletop beside me and pictures of you, Matt, Wammy's and myself scattered across the desk's surface before me, all I can think about are missed chances and dirty glances. Is that all there was between us? Unspoken words on you end and anger on mine? I can't say I regret it, because I'm not one to regret, but I wonder…

My heart drums in my throat and echoes throughout my skull like a rebounding computer virus set on overdrive. It will give out at any minute, I'm sure. So I start to laugh, deep and heartily, my blonde hair tossing about and messing itself up as I twitch and squirm with that eerie laughter.

For a brief second, I wish that I could see you in person again, your albino-white hair and smooth, pale skin with those inquisitive black eyes, always staring.

I wish, too, that we could have caught Kira together.

But I wish above all else that you could have come and stopped me. Because I think you would have been able to. Maybe I wouldn't be dying this very moment if you had come and granted my wishes. I would be in need of rehabilitation, but I would be fine otherwise.

I hope you get this letter. My hand is shaking terribly, and I'm not even sure if I can finish it as I type out the last of these words on the computer screen in front of me, but I want you to know that even with my dying breath, I'm still stuck thinking about you. I don't know if that's extreme devotion to what I hate or what I love, but either way, you should find some sort of comfort in that fact.

Somehow always left as what's yours,

Mello.

And in case you're wondering, my real name is M

* * *

The letter cuts off there, with an incomplete name written. It had been typed up in Microsoft Word, and left on a computer screen, unsaved, while the monitor went into sleep mode due to the amount of inactive time prior to the body being found.

Investigators call it suicide. No way Kira had committed this murder, they say. And Near agreed; no force on Earth could drive Mello to do this other than himself. He was a destructive soul, so it made sense. It hurt deeply, but it made logical sense.

The police printed out the letter for Near, and as he reread it for the umpteenth time, he couldn't help but feel guilty for Mello's untimely death.

"How well did you know this young man?" one investigator asked. "Your name is all over this letter; it's written directly to you, which means he must have known you well."

"In a sense," Near told them solemnly, "He did not know me at all. Not who I really am, anyhow. But yes, we did know each other quite a bit otherwise. We grew up together, and had a very… rocky relationship," he said. 'Rocky' was the most graceful of words to use, since their relationship was worse than that. Much worse.

Near studied the letter once more, his mind reciting Mello's full name, Mihael Keehl. He knew it all along, despite what the deceased blonde thought.

"If you don't mind our asking," another investigator jumped in, "What did he mean to you?"

Near looked up from the letter, his dark eyes burrowing into theirs. "He meant the world to me."


	10. Jurisdiction

**J – **_Jurisdiction_

It's a grand thing, when you have jurisdiction over someone. To have jurisdiction is to have power or authority, complete control. It's thrilling and fills you with a sense of pride. But it's also extremely dangerous. Power can go to your head, and can even corrupt you enough to hurt someone. The boundary line is thin between when you have just the right amount of jurisdiction or too much.

Mello hardly saw that boundary line, if he saw it at all to begin with.

This little epiphany came to Near rather harshly one day, after he had been taken advantage of yet again. Mello had a way of manipulating Near into doing what he wanted, if his timing was right. He had to time it so that Near was in an off mood, which didn't come around often. Yet when it did, he never thought to his full reasoning potential, which gave Mello an opening to invade.

During these times, Near could be found in his room, sitting on his bed with his knees to his chin and his arms wrapped so tightly around himself it appeared as though he wanted to cut off the circulation in his legs. Mello knew this because whenever he sought out Near and found him nowhere in Wammy House, his room was the last place he could look. And when he came in, without a knock like always, he would find Near this way. It's been four times now.

"There you are, you albino bastard," the blonde snapped as he stepped into the room. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Was Mello worried about me?" the younger boy whispered hopefully.

"Yes, and it pisses me off that I was!" the other retorted. He came up to the bed and stared the pale boy down. "Do you have any idea what goes through my head when it comes to you?"

"I would like to know," Near murmured softly.

Mello snorted. "Of 'course you would. And you know what? I'm feeling generous today, because I'm glad that I found you before my dead exploded." He took a deep breath. "I don't know what it is, but I have this obsession with you. I feel like I need to protect you, to keep you all to myself. And yet I push you away half the time because I' afraid of what I might do if given the chance to touch you, even for an instant. You're always so… distant, Near. Tch, it's like you purposefully planned the irony of your adapted name. But no, because of your distance, you actually seek subtle attention, don't you? Namely from me. And because of this, it drives me up a wall! I can never stop thinking about you, and I hate it. Just what's so special about you, huh? And I don't mean your smarts, either, since I'm just as clever as you are! No, I mean everything else. Just… what is it?"

"I wouldn't know, Mello," the albino replied lowly. "But I'm glad."

"Glad? GLAD? What the hell for?"

"That Mello feels that way. I'm happy that Mello keeps coming back." He looked up into those cold blue eyes. "Because I don't want to be an enemy to Mello. I want to be close to him. He's all I have, the closest thing to a loved one."

Mello's shock came over him like a wave of arctic air. He stiffened, his body going rigid with a coldness that stopped his heart and made guilt weigh heavily upon him. It seemed that, in this orphan world, he was left to be something special to a boy he thought he didn't like, to a boy he thought he was supposed to make a rival out of.

"You have complete jurisdiction over me, Mello," the white-haired boy said softly. "It's not fair, but somehow, I belong to you."

It was after Near said this that Mello tackled him to the bed, tears stinging his eyes as he yelled in demand of why it had to be him. When he got no answer, he shuddered with a quaking breath and sudden lustful urge. His head shot up to glare at Near, but slowly, his head fell to kiss the boy beneath him. Over and over he kissed him, hard, until Near's lips were turning a muddled purple from overuse.

"I'll be back later," Mello said. He needed some time to think.

But when he came back later, it turned into their first time of barrier-free connection, in which they lost themselves completely. And that was where the vicious cycle began and didn't end until approximately a year before the Kira case came into full effect.


	11. Killing

**A/N: Mood music - 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails. And yes, if you already know the song, that means that this is a very sexually dark drabble. Mmhmmm.**

* * *

**K – **_Killing_

I can feel you.

You're there, deep inside of me, moving, teasing, hurting. You like seeing me squirm.

But you know what? I hate it. I hate it all.

I hate the way you make me feel; dirty, used, pitiful, hungry for more. It's like you want me to scream your name because you need to know that I'm breaking, that I love you, that I want to kill you, that I'm slowly moving closer to the edge.

As for the edge of what, I don't know yet. You want it to be the edge of my climax, you hope that I get a rise out of this, but I don't. I think it's the edge of sanity. I think, sooner rather than later, I'm going to go crazy.

I can feel you, even now.

You're here, above me, panting, sweating, moaning. You like to dig deep.

But you know what? It's damaging me. I'm bleeding.

I hate the way you make me react; arching, gripping, grunting, wanting to slit your throat. It's like you're asking me to be your play thing, and yet I'm selfish, and I'm tired of it, and I'm about to vomit when I see your face.

You're this sick demon to me, sadistic and a twisted romantic and manipulative, oh-so manipulative. You trick me into craving your touch, as much as it hurts me. You trick me into obeying your commands, as much as I wish to do the opposite.

I can fight you.

You're stronger than me, but I'm faster. You're taller than me, but I have better reflexes. If I wanted to, I could stop this. I could end it all, and force you away. I could, I could.

But I don't.

Time and time again I let you violate me, grind me down, and release your own pent-up tension. And somewhere in the process, a small part of me enjoys the ride.

I think it's because of how desperate you are.

You're a pathetic, greedy creature. I know this, and because of my kind heart, I don't turn you away. I used to desire only your attention, and now that I get it, I find that it isn't so grand. And yet I still put up with it. I still linger where you leave me because I know you'll be back.

Why is that? Why am I allowing myself to be abused?

I think it's because I know you wouldn't do this to anyone else.

I know that you're an awful creature, and yet I know I am the sole person on this planet who completes you. I'm all you ever think about, all you ever care to indulge in. I'm your every fantasy, your every source of torment and pleasure. You couldn't live without me.

But I could live without you.

I could live without the violent actions you call love-making. I could live without your kisses, which always leave my lips and neck bruised. I could murder you one night after yet another disgusting deed. I could, I could.

But I don't.

And I think it's because I don't have it in me. My hands shake, and my breath hitches, and my heart pounds, and my body aches. I need you. I don't want you when you hurt me, but I still need you to hold me afterwards.

How contorted is that logic?

But it's the truth.

Somehow, we got into this vile relationship, and now we can't come out of it. We're stuck in this repulsive merry-go-round of unadulterated love and miserable rape and sweet comfort and unkind torture.

I hate to love you, love to hate you, and you feel the same.

Why must fate be so cruel, as to be killing us slowly this way?


	12. Lament

**L – **_Lament_

The lone lament you made in life was the regret of letting him go. You were too prideful to admit your feelings for him, and now it's gone, all of it; your life, his life, the world, everything. All gone, taken out with the morning trash. The newspapers forgot both of you, and now merely ashes remain. How woeful it seems, how heavily you bewail the loss. You sing of it with a sordid melody laced with bitter, dry chocolate, not sweet and creamy the way you like it. The taste leaves a sore trail down your tongue and throat. Not tears, simply your lament. But you're dead, so there's nothing left to mourn. Lament be dammed, you're Mihael Keehl, and you were raised on the idea of being seemingly uncaring about personal matters and yet, deep within, being the most emotional of all. And he… well, he wasn't too different from you, except he kept his expressions in far better check than your own. His damn deadpan face, as colorless and blank as marble, forever taunting you, even in death. And he's dead, too, always has been in a way, but he's Near and yet so distant. He laments often, that albino boy, but no one ever heard him. Somehow, you wish you could have heard him. You were curios, at the end, about what he would lament over. And it's twisted, because secretly, he lamented about you in the similar way which you lamented about him. And where does that leave you now? With nothing, of 'course. Because you're both_ gone. _


	13. Make

**M – **_Make_

"We should make something together," you hear him say. His snowy bundle of hair falls over and around his eyes as he says this, and he looks so Goddamn attractive and repulsive at the same time. You don't understand it, because your sentiments toward him are conflicting and contradicting, always. And when he says this to you… his face as childish as you remember it being when you were both children, and et missing some of the baby fat, but still playing with building blocks, which causes him to look as much of a child as you knew him to be back then.

"Make _what,_ Near?" you spit in return. You snarl, scowl, hiss. Glare at him. "Make a small victory by catching Kira together? Make a relationship?"

He glances down, no expression, but the action tells you that he's ashamed and shy and apologetic. He lifts a block with a letter of the English alphabet printed on it in bold blue. "Make a tower, or a castle, or a pyramid. Something."

You don't understand. You frown in confusion. He wants to play? He wants to build a structure out of wooden ABC blocks? You're both adults! Young adults, but adults all the same! _Why the hell does he want to play with me?_ you wonder. You shake your head. "You're crazy, Near. Why would I want to build some stupid pyramid or whatever with you? I have work to do, and so do you. Or does Kira somehow no longer pose as a threat?"

"He does, but this is merely twenty minutes or less out of the day that can be spared for free time. So won't you join me, Mello?" he murmurs softly, head still lowered, fingers trailing over the carving of the blue letter on the block in his hand.

Groaning in defeat, you comply. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Why the fuck not? Got nothing better to do, and I don't feel like arguing with you today."

And you sit down across from the albino, mindful of the mess of wooden blocks before you, and begin stacking alongside pale white hands.


	14. Nimble

**N – **_Nimble_

Thin, delicate. Gentle, lengthy. Quick-paced, pale. All these words describe Near's hands as they move across Mello's body, making nimble work of removing garments and deftly tracing old burns like the one on the blond's face. He takes his time and yet doesn't slow as he ventures onto the next thing, and the next, and the next. Mello smirks, allowing Near to timidly explore for as long as he likes. It's not every day that either of them come into any sort of contact at all, and so it's a nice change from the norm to let Near experiment a little, his hands acting on their own accord.

"Near be nimble, Near be quick; Near, be mindful of my solid d–"

"Mello, watch your dirty mouth."

"What? It was funny and you know it. How 'bout this one, then: Near be nimble, Near be quick; Near, stop being such a prude-ish prick."

"…Now that sounds more like the Mello I know."


	15. Opposite

**O – **_Opposite_

I wear black, he wears white.  
He wants peace, I want to fight.  
Whatever I do, he opposes me.  
Like a bird behind a window, I want to be free.  
But he traps himself, hiding behind his toys.  
It's like he still thinks we're little boys.  
But I live for the future, purposely leaving my past;  
Yet it feels like my escape can't last.  
Since every time I find my way,  
Attempting to close the Kira case and save the day,  
Near is one step ahead of me, moving in the opposite direction,  
And suddenly I feel as though I've lost all connection.


	16. Puzzle

**P – **_Puzzle_

He's often seen sitting there, all alone, a ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzle as large as a rug spread out before him, his logical mind quickly calculating each piece's place every second. The picture itself is of a Polish or German countryside, something outside of the norm of their English homeland; something beautiful and luscious and priceless, artistic in it's own way, and yet not seen as any of these things because to this boy, it is merely a puzzle to be figured out and put together.

And Mello despises this about the boy, because it shows how cold Near truly is, and how much like that giant puzzle he is in personality. He's a work of art himself, but doesn't notice, and he's as hard to figure out as that huge picture-puzzle. Through all the detail in both the puzzle and the white boy, it is impossible to piece together without going insane with frustration in the process, and yet with each, they can be figured out… eventually. It could take weeks, months, years; but the puzzle – and Near – may be figured out if given the proper clues.

And Mello is determined to do figure the boy out.

And he will begin by sitting down and assisting the white boy with the giant jigsaw, under the ruse that he is going to compete to see who will finish it first.


	17. Quarrel

**Q – **_Quarrel_

The blond doesn't hesitate to pace directly into my personal space, his young teen face angled in sharp emotion. He is yelling at me, on a ranting rampage, attempting to start a verbal fight of some kind. But I back away slowly and shake my head, murmuring that I do not wish to quarrel with him. He becomes even angrier, and demands why not while giving me a small shove. I stumble into one of the library bookcases and use it to stabilize myself as I stare at the floor.

"Please, Mello," I whisper, "Stop this."

He snorts in defiance. "'Stop this'? It's not _my_ bloody fault! You deserve _every word_! What I just can't understand _why_ the hell you don't have the guts to stand up for yourself?! I mean, for Christ's _sake, _Near! You're _fif_-fucking-_teen_! Grow up, already! Learn to fight _back_! Retaliate!" The blond shoves me again, and utters a handful more of offensive curse words, the gentlest of which being 'big pussy'.

I shrink in on myself and shake my head repeatedly. "I am not," I say over and over. "I am not!"

"You _are,_" he hisses lowly in my ear as he slams one hand against the bookshelf and leans towards me. "You're nothing but a spineless coward, someone who can easily be taken advantage of physically."

"I am _not!_" I shout, my voice finally reaching ten octaves above it's usual soft murmur. I elbow Mello in the chest and flee from him, but as the shock wears off and I slow my pace, I can hear him laughing. Laughing like a mad man, or a man who won the lottery; I can't tell which.

"Good!" he hollers as he chases after me, "Very, very good! It's good to see you defend yourself, Near," he says, and in seconds, Mello catches me by the wrist and swings me around to face him. I want to look away or close my eyes or duck my head, but he uses his other hand to hold my chin in place. "_Look at me,_ Near," he growls and purrs at the same time, much like that of a cat playing with its prey. "It's exhilarating, isn't it? Fighting someone."

"No, it's not," I retort lowly as I bat his hand away. "I don't like it. It's nothing but anxiety and misguided rage and –"

"But, for once, I'm able to make out a couple emotions in your stony face," he says wistfully. "And isn't that a positive thing?"

I'm awestruck. Is my deadpan expression so haunting to him that he feels the need to antagonize me simply to create a reaction? "Depends on who it is deemed positive by," I retort. "Surely not me."

"You have a point, as always, Near," Mello agrees. He smirks, his cruel blue eyes glittering. "Technically, the only person who finds this whole thing positive is_ me._"

"But why?" I utter monotonously. "Why do you crave response from me so badly?"

His face contorts for a minute. "Why?" he echoes. "_Why?_" he says again, and this time his voice rises. "Because you're all I ever think about! You're a sick obsession of mine, and I need to quarrel and compete with you in order to feed my obsession, lest I'll go _insane!_ Don't you get it, Near? Don't you _see_? I hold so much against you that it makes me sick, and in the same token, that passion is turned into… turned into…"

His face is growing red and his brows are lifting pathetically as his eyes close, and I'm watching as his head is bowing and his fists are clenching in defeat. His hand hands in front of his face, and I can barely make out his expression any longer.

I swallow fearfully. "Hate?" I venture by means of completing his statement.

"No," he spits like a swear word. "I _wish_ it was hate. No, instead, it's turned into the opposite, and it makes me want to _scream bloody murder_."

I freeze as I realize exactly what he s referring to.

Mello _loves_ me. Loves me to the point of **insanity.**

I reach out a shaking, ivory hand to run my fingers through his hair. He looks up, and suddenly all of the fiery, harmful light is gone from his eyes, along with the helplessness. In its place, there is something else, something akin to surprise and fondness and a different kind of longing than I am used to.

"Mello can have me if he promises not to hurt me," I say almost inaudibly. "Alright?"

He gulps loudly, but nods his head. "Yeah, alright."


	18. Recluse

**R – **_Recluse_

You hide in your room day in and day out. You do not say a word to any of the others, and you do not interact with them when they offer to play a game with you. You keep to yourself, and remain in your social shell.

Matt calls you a recluse. He says that you will forever be a freaky hermit, and that you think you're too good for everybody else.

He says this because, deep down, Matt is jealous of you.

Matt is jealous because – despite being a loner – you spark Mello's interest. You are the sole person who Mello will go all-out for, the sole person who Mello will go to new lengths to defeat. Or seek out and speak to. Or avoid. Or make physical contact with.

And in return, he is the one and only person who can stir a reaction from you, a sentence spoken from you, a blush made on your cheeks. He is the one and only person in the entire orphanage – no, in the entire _world_ – whose rough kisses can make you come out of your shell and shed your 'recluse' title like a snake's skin.


	19. Solitaire

**S – **_Solitaire_

Solitary confinement is not nearly as frightening as people seem to think. It is utterly consoling to Near in particular. He finds lonesome silence to be a gift rather than a curse.

And, ironically enough, he will pay solitaire while he is solitary, because it is only appropriate. And while it is true that the albino detective can grow wistful for the boyish company of an extremely young and kinder version of Mello, he knows that it is impossible to have such a different time and circumstance returned to him.


	20. Tied

**T – **_Tied_

I can't move.

I'm tied down against my will, and I can't move.

My eyes are blindfolded and the room around me is quiet. I'm standing against the wall, my arms bound above my head, hands loosely fists and touching, and my feet are on the floor, unbound.

But I still can't move.

Whether it is my own fear holding me back from lashing out with my legs, or my bindings making me feel completely restricted, I do not know.

The only thing I am aware of is the presence of another individual in the room with me, most likely no more than a meter and a half in distance from my person.

"Who's there?" I mutter, trying to keep my voice calm and even. But even I can't hide the hint of hysteria in the background of my tone. "Let me see who you are!" I demand, attempting to sound defiant.

"You can't fool me, Nate River," a voice responds, but its sound is garbled by a voice-changer machine. I'm not meant to recognize it. "I know how scare you are. You're trembling."

Drat, I hadn't even noticed my own shaking. Swallowing dryly, I ask, "What are you going to do with me? Why am I here?"

"I want answers," the disguised voice replies slowly. "And you aren't going to leave until I have every last question answered truthfully."

"This seems a little over-the-top for an interrogation, doesn't it?" I say evenly, my fear subsiding; at least I'm not going to be raped or tortured.

"For you, it's necessary for me to remain anonymous and for you to not escape."

I shrug. "Your logic seems fair. Begin your questioning."

"I'll say when we begin or not!" the voice snaps childishly. "You're _my_ prisoner, remember?"

I shrug again, which is not easy to do when your arms are tied above your head. "You're right; I apologize. Continue when you wish to."

The voice growls and sniffs indignantly. Whoever this is, it's obvious that it is a male. Women don't do to such drastic measures, and I hardly know any women in the first place, let alone any who would capture me. Although, I do have an idea as to who would be foolish enough to do this…

After a minute of my thoughts, the voice clears its throat. "My first question is simple: why do you turn away from everybody who wants to get close to you?"

This is a question I hadn't been expecting at all. I was thinking information of the technological sort, like facts and secrets about the Kira case, or L's real name, or where the notebook my team has in its possession may be found. But no, this person knows me well, and wants other information. Personal information.

"Because I don't want them to die," I reply automatically. I was told to speak nothing but the truth, and this is it: I knew, even as a young boy, that having close friends or family (thank goodness that I am an orphan) would ultimately lead to their downfalls and mine. It is unsafe to have lovers or people to trust; you need to only trust yourself, and keep all others at bay. Caring for others or having others care for you will destroy you and them. Enemies will seek them out and kill them in order to hurt you. Police will break down all barriers in order to turn them against you if you bend the law too far. And in my line of work, enemies spring up every waking minute, and the police are constantly working with me or against me, so I can never tell who is truly on my side. For this reason, I have made nobody close to my heart.

The voice is quiet for a long time. "You're afraid that anyone near you will be murdered?"

"I'm not afraid; I _know_," I correct softly. "Because it has happened to me before. If you know my true name, then you must also know that I am an orphan. But do you know why?"

"No."

"It's because my parents were killed. Right before my eyes. And I knew from that day forward that I had to distance myself from all of my other relatives and make all efforts to keep others – like friends and lovers – at bay, because the same thing would happen to them. Is it inevitable. And one day, a case I will have shall be the death of me, but since I will have made no one close to me, no one will mourn me, which means no one will be wounded by my loss," I explain. Tears sting my eyes, and for a brief moment, I am grateful for the blindfold because it absorbs the offensive drops.

"That explains everything," the voice mutters under its breath. "Suddenly, I have no more to ask of you. And I am no longer angered by your very existence, because I realize that you prefer to practically not exist."

"You're right," I say. "I don't exist. You only exist if people remember and love you. But no one loves me because I have made it thus, and no one will remember me for the same reason."

"But that isn't entirely true," the voice contradicts, but this time, the voice-changer isn't switched on. I can hear their actual voice range, and the sound is strikingly familiar. "Because I will remember you. And in a deformed sense of the word, I loved you."

I tense as the words slap me in the face. I know for sure, now, who brought me here, and who wanted to question me. And just as I'm about to say his name, he steps in front of me and removes my blindfold. And I find that my deduction had been on the money.

"You are so cold, Near; never loving anyone in order to save them. But in actuality, you've hurt them, because they are just like me: someone who longs for you but cannot have you. It's maddening. You've driven me to extremes countless times, but then again, I wasn't very stable to begin with."

The blond brushes his lips past my cheek and lands them on the base of my jaw. I shiver, because the contact is unusual and unclean. "Mello," I mumble, "Why so this now?"

"Because I'm probably going to die soon," he responds as he reaches up to untie my wrists. "Which means you would've been correct once again, had we been friends or more."

"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it. Although I don't know for what reasons I said this to him just now.

"I'm sure," Mello smiles sourly. I'm free by this time. "Now go, Near. You're not far from your base of operations. I tricked you by driving around in circles when I kidnapped you."

"Somehow," I murmur quietly, "This doesn't surprise me." I frown. "But you didn't have to kidnap me to ask me questions. You could have visited."

"But visiting is what friends do," Mello retorts mildly. "And we're not friends. You even said so yourself."

I bite my tongue, wanting to say that I take it back, that he is my friend, and please, please don't leave me to die.

"But maybe we are," Mello muses as he starts to walk away, "Because I'm going to meet my death soon. You must have cursed me in more ways than one."

"And in what way was the other?" I want to know before he leaves. My knees threaten to give out. Don't go, Mello, please…

"You became bound to my heart."


	21. Unbreakable

**U – **_Unbreakable_

"No."

Mello cannot be broken. Mello resists, Mello refuses, Mello rejects. Mello's resolve cannot be shattered, nor can he be moved to tears. Mello has only his angry mask and hateful words; he has nothing else. Still, he is and must always be unbreakable. No one may change his mind about a single thing. He is stubborn, he is livid. He is everything that everybody else dares not to be. Matt cherishes it. Near envies it. And between them, Mello is all. He is unchangeable, he is cold. Mello will not allow himself to become anything less than flawless in his state of hard-earned accomplishment.

"No."

He cannot be anything less than steel. He resists change, refuses to be outshined, and rejects undying loyalty. His decision to ignore Matt's wish t be lovers and Near's hand in friendship because it would break him, and he will not be broken. It is unacceptable to be breakable.

"No! No!! No!!!"

So how come Near is effortlessly chiseling off chip after chip of his marble-slab-thick barriers? Why, through all the loathing and rivalry, is Near reaching his core as if they are friends?

"NO!"

Mello shouts and screams and hollers the single-syllable word over and over as he pushes and shoves and rams Near out of his way. But the persistent little bugger constantly moves back in place. The white boy kisses him when he can, and Mello hates it. He wants out. This should not be happening! Mello is unbreakable, Mello is –

"No…"

His resolve is wearing thin. His angry mask is diminishing. His stubbornness is fading. His livid attitude is waning. He is changing, he is warming. He is becoming flawed in his current state.

Mello is losing this battle.

"N–"

And with each gentle, careful touch, Mello breaks.


	22. Violin

**V – **_Violin_

I could hear it, all around me. The whimsical whining of a violin, stunning and alluring. I would always travel down the eastern corridor to the music room at Whammy's, in pursuit of that lovely sound. It was flawless in melody and pitch and flow, perfectly graceful and harmonizing with the world around it. I would wander down that hallway, tip-toeing, so that the person playing wouldn't hear me and stop their fiddling with the instrument.

The tune was always different, but it was never fast-paced. Some days it would sound lighthearted, and others ir would sound sorrowful. But there were also days where that violin would sound harshly angered, and so loud that I had to plug my ears so not to harm them. But it was never distasteful, nor did it ever strike a sour note. Everything about that violin's song was amazing, and every time I heard it and followed it's sound, I dared not look upon the face of that violin's master, for fear of who I might find.

But I discovered the truth one day by mistake. Looking back on it now as I solve the Kira case, it is practically impossible to imagine that the violinist from my school was the person I found it out to be. Because at first, I honestly thought that it was Lawliet. I thought with nearly ninety percent surety that the violinist was my pseudo big brother L.

It was not him.

Instead, it was a boy closer to my age, with straight blond hair and sharp blue eyes and black clothes that clung to his frame seductively. It was a boy with a bad temper and a chocolate fetish and a video game addict for a best friend.

The violinist was Mello.

I found this out a day I was returning to my bedroom, which happened to be located next to Mello's. I saw him entering the room with a medium-sized case in the shape of a small guitar. I knew immediately that it was a violin. My jaw dropped.

"Does…" I began dryly, and had to lick my lips to stop them from sticking together, "Does Mello play the violin?"

"Yeah, I do. What about it?" he had responded coldly.

I looked away, embarrassed. "No reason. Just… saw the case, and heard the beautiful music every day, and wondered if, maybe, it was Mello that I heard."

He grunts. "It had been, but I'm giving it up."

My eyes shot back to his. "But why?" I asked, hurt. I didn't want the music to ever go away, it was so enjoyable.

"None of your business," the blond scoffed. He tossed his case carelessly into his room. "Now bugger off, Near. I have homework to do." And he slammed his bedroom door, leaving me outside of my own, alone in the hallway.

That night, I stupidly chose to sneak into Mello's room after hours and I meant to steal his violin so that he wouldn't destroy it like I thought he might.

Unfortunately, he caught me in the act.

"Hold it right there, you little thief!" he hissed as he sat up in bed and flipped his covers to free his legs. He was on me in a second, and in the moonlight, I could see him baring his teeth. "Just what do you think you're doing, huh?"

"I'm sorry Mello, I'm so sorry!" I whispered a hair frantically. "I… I just… I didn't want you to destroy such a pretty instrument. I… I wanted to keep it and maybe learn to play it, because I'll miss hearing your songs."

He leant off of me and gave me an incredulous look. "You really like my music, don't you, Near?"

I nodded stiffly. I didn't want to give away exactly how great my love for his violin playing went.

He smirked. "In that case," Mello replied in a much gentler tone, "I'll keep playing, just for you. Any time you want. But… you have to do something for me in return."

A chill ran down my spine, and I shuddered to think that he would want from me. But I was captivated by the charm of his violin mastery, and had no choice but to agree. "Okay," I said. "I'll do whatever Mello wants, so long as he keeps playing the violin for me."

His smirk broadened into a Cheshire grin. "Good. Then what I would like you to do is…" And he whispered his demands to me, and I felt my cheeks burn pink in the dark.

But I had given my word.

So I nodded shyly and murmured a breathy, "Okay."

"You know," Mello spoke sneakily into my ear, "I could play for you right now. I just finished writing a song yesterday that I didn't get a chance to test out yet. I could play it for you, and then you could give me your first payment."

I didn't like what he wanted me to do for him. It was twisted like Mello, but it would gain me access to music whenever I wanted, so I didn't want to complain. I kept telling myself, it's for the greater good. The greater good of exquisite music, anyhow.

So I complied. He took out his violin, sat on his bed with me audience to him on the floor, and he took out a handwritten piece of sheet music which he played in the light of the moon.

And I couldn't say that anything else he had ever played in the past was better than this new piece, because this new piece was the most gorgeous and emotional violin solo I had ever heard in my life, and it still is to this day. It was titled, 'Obsession of the Deranged Heart.'

It took me less than a minute to realize that the song was about me. Or, more precise, the song was about Mello's unnatural infatuation with me. But I could care less what it was about; all that mattered to me what the way it sounded.

It would later be a song I asked Mello to play repeatedly, and each time he played it, his smirk grew a little wider.

But following that initial performance of the song, my first payment was due. And it made me sick to think about what sinful thing I was about to commit, but I had to do it, otherwise I would never hear Mello's violin again.

So, as Mello set aside his violin into its case and tugged down his pajama pants, I tried not to look at or think about what I was swirling my tongue around, or what the noises Mello started making meant.

The problem with our deal was actually a few different problems in one. The main one being that it wasn't always the same thing I had to pay him with; that would get boring, he said. So other times I would pay with my body in other ways, allowing him to do whatever it was he wanted to, or whatever it was he wanted me to do to him. After a while – as Mello wanted – it became less forced and more out of habit. And then, pathetically, it became an addiction. I craved the physical playing almost as much as I craved the musical playing. Mello was a sordid monster who knew how to lure, manipulate, and capture people.

And I fell the hardest of all for his trap.


	23. Window

**W – **_Window_

He waits there, patiently, like a marble statue of the finest architecture modeled in place. He is lovely in his own cold, cruel way, and every day Mello spots him up there, waiting; but for what, Mello does not know.

Near is serene, gazing outward from behind the fogging glass with his ivory fingers pressed hard against the fall frost on the window. He longs to be less of a mute, less of a statue, and less of an outcast. He longs to join the other kids in their soccer games, and longs even more to touch them the way he caresses the window. He wonders if they feel as lukewarm as his own albino akin, or if they are blazing hot. But he is afraid; he does not know what would happen. So he merely sits behind the windows of Wammy House and watches, silently, like the observant ghost that he is.

Mello can't stand it; he can't stand the stillness, the quiet, the peering onyx eyes which look out at him from behind a protective shield of fired and polished sand. He knows, because he read about glassmaking in a book once for his history class.

The blond wants to badly to shatter that window. Near sits at the same one every day, and glances out of many others throughout the course of the year. He has the crushing desire to break the glass and expose the white boy, or to stop him from spying, because it's unnerving and bizarre. Mello wants many things from that naïve, brilliant boy, but he can settle for ceasing Near's stalking of him through that godforsaken window.


	24. Xenophobia

**X – **_Xenophobia_

"I've figured you out, Near," I hiss at him one day as I enter the library and storm over to his spot in the corner of the room.

"Have you, Mello?" he mumbles curiously, although he does not move to look at me or make any sort of facial expression whatsoever.

For once, I brush his nonchalance off. "Yes, I have. You have xenophobia, Near."

"Xenophobia? I don't think I've heard that word before. Can Mello define it for me?" he says, and this time he casts his gaze on my face, but his eyes don't connect with mine; they linger around my lips and chin, watching for any movement.

So I move them. I explain my revelation to him, in hopes of getting some sort of rise out of him. It's a sick game I play time and time again, tormenting myself while driving him inwardly mad. At least I think so. "Xenophobia is the fear of what is foreign. You don't like outsiders; you don't like unusual things; you don't like change; you don't like anything from your books made into a reality; you don't like human contact… the list goes on and on, Near. It's so simple, I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner."

"Interesting," the snowy boy replies mildly, and his eyes drop back to his game of solitary chess. I never much saw the point of chess played by oneself; it seemed like meaningless practice strategy and nothing more. "Mello is very clever to have figured this out."

"So you admit it, then? You know that it's true?" I snap back, and jab a finger in the air above him.

"I don't know if it's true," Near murmurs softly. "I never gave it much thought."

"But… it has to be true," I retort hotly. "It all fits together. It makes perfect sense."

Near nods slowly. "Yes, I suppose it does… in a matter of speaking."

"Why only a matter of speaking? Why not entirely speaking?" I growl, getting frustrated now. Here comes the torment to myself, as predicted. I really have to stop playing these games.

"Well," the younger boy says at length, and in his pause he gets to his feet and glances at my eyes before turning to pick up his game board. "Mello is speaking as thought he doesn't count himself as something foreign; so if he was to add himself into the speculation, it would be proven incorrect, due to the fact that I do accept one small piece of foreign material, and that would be Mello's whole entity."

My mouth falls agape. Near is saying that he accepts me? To what degree, on what level? In what _manner_ does he accept me? It doesn't compute. It's not logical for him to like me in any way, shape, or form; after all, we're rivals. And I hate him.

"I'm sure, right about now, Mello is wondering what it is I mean," Near utters from pale lips. He finishes packing up his chess game and turns to finally face me. "But I can't explain myself. All I can say is, if there was anyone in this entire orphanage that I would like to befriend, it would be Mello."

And with that, he leaves me standing in the library with thoughts teeming in my head in the form of questions that cannot be asked.


	25. Yet

**Y – **_Yet_

They are not a couple, not yet.

So they have kissed. Big deal! So what? People kiss all the time. Relatives, friends, families, foreigners in greeting. Anybody can kiss. That doesn't make them a couple.

So they have held hands. Big whoop! Who cares? People hold hands all the time. Relatives, friends, young children. Anybody can gold hands. That doesn't make them a couple.

So they have slept in the same bed a few times. Big scandal! Whatever, right? People fall asleep together all the time. Relatives, friends, students during classes. Anybody can doze off in the same place. That doesn't make them a couple.

So they have rumors spread about them. Ooh, scary! Such a scoop, huh? Plenty of people get rumors made up about them. Relatives, friends, colleagues, families, middle and high school students. That doesn't make them a couple, especially not if people create the lie themselves.

So they have had sex. Wow, exciting! Totally caught now, aren't they? But tons of people have sex, and for different reasons. Prostitutes, friends (drunk or not), students, cheating spouses, colleagues, high school and college students. Anybody can have sex with somebody else, even if it's the wrong situation. That doesn't make them a couple.

When they say 'I love you,' or when they actually go out on a date… then they will be a couple.

Presently, however, Mello and Near are _not_ a couple, despite the evidence against them.

They aren't one yet, anyway. Not yet.


	26. Zeal

**Z – **_Zeal_

What is shared between us goes beyond passion. Because passion can be love or hate, tender or tense, right or wrong. Passion simply cannot describe the mixture of all of these things between he and I; but there is a word which is able to justly classify our feelings.

And that word is zeal.

We both hold a certain zeal for the other, a passion so rich that it covers all the varieties, such as the six I initially named. Our zeal is crisp and solid, like a sheet of ice over the surface of a pond during the first frost. Our zeal, too, is asphyxiating and everlasting, like the humid summer heat at the Earth's equator.

It is impossible to describe our relationship in any other way, because it is not a romance, nor a competition; it is both at once. And it has been ever since we met as children, and will be until the day we die.


End file.
